


dead things all about town

by lilith_morgana



Series: Virago [3]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Character Study, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-02
Updated: 2014-12-02
Packaged: 2018-02-27 22:44:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2709407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilith_morgana/pseuds/lilith_morgana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Remembering is the only way you learn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	dead things all about town

**Author's Note:**

> \---  
> Spoilers for Blackwall's personal quest as well as pretty much every party banter conversation he has with Cole.  
> \---

  
  
  
  
**1.**  
  
All she ever wants from the world is flowers.   
  
All she ever wants is to pick them with her own hands, barefoot in the grass but that's impossible so he brings them inside for her instead, takes a slice of outdoors to her bedside. She'll sit up then, her fingertips touching the mud and hints of dew on his hands, her mouth curved into a smile that still looks like a smile although she's much too pale, her chubby cheeks gone hollow; he stays for as long as she will have him there or until mother throws him out.  _She needs her rest, Thom. Get out of here._  
  
He returns again in the late afternoons when the sun rests low in the sky and makes patterns on her bed. “Tell me about griffons.”  
  
“I know nothing about griffons, Liddy.”   
  
The huffing noise she makes in response is soft like her skin, making her sound far too old for someone that young. “That's what big brothers do. They tell you about griffons.”  
  
There are no stories in his body, no myths or campfire tall tales running in his blood, at least not in the way they seem to live in hers. She makes something up every day, spins ridiculous little adventures around mundane things. Thom doesn't. He feels foolish coming up with them, foolish and out of place in her small little bed. He's ten years older, he shouldn't even  _be_  here.  _Not yet a man grown and already as useless as your father._  
  
She asks for orchids, once.   
  
He searches for a long time, much longer than he should because she expects him after he's been to the marketplace with the crop, expects him for that short time when mother carries her out of her bedchamber to sit by the fireplace. Those moments become shorter and shorter; she is much weaker now.  
  
That day when he returns with an orchid – stolen from a botanist down by the docks and not as fresh as the flowers he picks outside their house but he doesn't think she will care – she is gone. The brittle stem makes a soft cracking sound in his palm before he takes a few steps, crossing the floor in the narrow room until he stands by the empty bed where the sheets are shaped around her body, the pillows still bear the mark of her head.   
  
Thom places the orchid on the pillow and closes his eyes.   
  
 _I'm sorry I was too late._  
  
  
–  
  
  
The old stones under his feet up here on the battlements in Skyhold have nothing to share with him today. No myths or flights of fancy carried in the harsh winds that grab hold of the orchids he's brought.   
  
Thirty-six.   
  
He wonders at every anniversary what she would have used those years for. Writing novels like Varric, perhaps. Or making potions from her own garden, selling them in the streets. She always has a family in his imagination; he doesn't want her to be alone. Regardless, it would have been a decent life. A life that doesn't demand someone else's name and someone else's fucking honour because you've pissed all over your own, if you ever had any.   
  
The orchids scatter in the air, like large drops of rain falling down over the empty field below.   
  
 _Mother was right, Liddy. It should have been me._  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
**2.**  
  
  
“Maker have mercy.” One of the men sits on the ground, by one of the bodies that no longer moves in pain. That no longer moves at all. “Maker have mercy, Maker have  _mercy_ -”  
  
But there will be no mercy, Thom knows with a brutal clarity that cuts through everything else.   
  
“Callier is dead,” he says, matter of factly. He can barely hear his own voice through the thunder in his head.   
  
“Captain-” another soldier looks at him, face stained with blood and dirt. Thom can see the brokenness in the man's eyes, can see the despair as the soldier realises what boundaries he has crossed tonight, what vast darkness that lies beyond. Slaughtering children. For what? For gold, for pride, for cowardice. 

“Go home,” he says, placing his hand on the man's shoulder. “Mission is done.”  
  
Thom stands motionless while his men leave – slowly and hurriedly all at once, as though they cannot wait to be some place else but can't bear to walk away. As though the murdered family holds them here, roots them to the spot. He wants to tell them that they didn't know. He wants to tell them  _he_  didn't know.  _Didn't you, Thom?_  But a captain must stand up for his own orders so he merely watches them leave.   
  
 _You'll be lavishly rewarded, of course_ , Ser Robert says in his memory.  _Everything you can imagine._  
  
He kneels down among the children; they are beautiful, like Lord Callier's wife. Around them there are scattered toys – dolls and trinkets, carved figurines and a book full of drawings. Blood on the ground, blood and dirt and broken bones in unholy patters and Thom forces himself to look at it until he can no longer see anything, until the scream in his lungs has drained him of all emotion.   
  
 _You are who you choose to follow_ , another man says, in another memory. He had wondered about that saying as a young man. Had wondered for a long time.   
  
Thom Rainier, he learns at long last, is filth.   
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
**3.**  
  
"Here. Take this."

Thom blinks. His vision is blurry, blood-stained, as he looks up and sees an unfamiliar face that belongs to a large man standing in front of him, holding out a piece of cloth. He winces as he accepts the offer, still swallowing blood that seems to flow from his nose and a cut on his lip. Too fucking old for tavern fights by now. Hasn't stopped him yet. It's hardly honourable for a boy of fifteen either but for a man his age it's nothing but embarrassing. But they say you can never outrun yourself and this, he thinks as he attempts to stop the nose bleed, is clearly who he is. At least he had won. Three against one.

"Thanks."

"So, you're always taking beatings for strangers then?" The man looks at him like he's searching for something within; it's never a good sign so Thom averts his gaze, staring down at his dirty boots on the ground instead. "The barmaid told me to thank you."

"Andraste's tits." He shakes his head. "It was never about that. I wanted her to bring me ale. Don't care much what happens to her beyond that."

Once, in another life he might have. Once, in another life he might have cared about bedding her or at least impressing her in some pathetic fashion. He finds that everything from his old life falls away from him these days, as though nothing in it was ever real at all, at least never real enough to last when his world transforms. His grasp of the man he used to be is slipping, faster and faster it goes but there's no escape from his own mind and there's no  _release_.

"If you say so," the other man replies and Thom hates the edge of arrogance to his voice, that hint of considering himself above others, of being in a position to judge their characters based on brief glimpses of their existences.

"You clearly don't know anything about me," he mutters, spitting out a lump of blood that lands between his feet. There's something soothing in seeing his own blood like that; blood and dirt and mud on the ground, like it can compensate somehow, even the scores. It's a foolish illusion, of course. Every night he sees the carriage when he closes his eyes. Every night for years and nothing can outweigh it, nothing comes even close. He drinks himself into a stupor but he still dreams; he tries to forget himself in the arms of women but all he sees is broken bodies on the ground and he asks the women to leave before they've even undressed.  _Stop wasting my time you pathetic drunk_. "Let's leave it at that."

The other man shrugs and there's a sardonic smile on his lips now, as though he's used to scenes like this one, as though he's often watching wretched sods struggle to keep upright only to tell them they're really noble souls in disguise. What sort of person does that make him, Thom wants to ask.

"I'm Warden-Constable Blackwall." The words cut through the air, as if on cue. "Are you as good a swordsman as you are with your fists?"

A month later along the Storm Coast Blackwall dies near dawn, dies an unworthy, unfair death by the water as four straggling darkspawn from the horde they've been cutting through find him on his knees. He doesn't even manage to get to his feet before the enemies overwhelm him and Thom is too far away, still struggling to get rid of a creature that's dug its blade into his arm and refuses to let go.

As he beheads the last of the group, he drags the other man out of the water, trying in vain to stop the bleeding from his many injuries but it's too late even before he tries, has been too late for a while.

 _You'll always get out alive, Thom_ , someone had told him once.  _You fight like you don't believe in death._  They had both been new soldiers, bruised and battered and raw with exhaustion and relief, the strange joy in surviving. He had laughed, told her she made no sense. She had been killed two months later, by bandits. Useless death for no good cause; another corpse for his endless funeral pyre.

Blackwall's blood washes over the grass and rocks and Thom stares at it, follows the rivulets with his gaze and thinks about the carriage, about the children, about how he's been running for years as though he's got something to protect besides his own shame. As though he's got any worth left or ever had any.

If they hadn't shared the last bottle of brandy a couple of nights ago, he would have drank that by now. Instead he sits entirely too sober by Blackwall's side until the sun is up, blinding but not warm above their heads. His head feels clearer than it has in a very long time when he's sorted through his thoughts, cleaned up a few messes and made a decision.   
  
He won't let another death go to waste.   
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
**4.**  
  
  
Mornay recognises him immediately.

He can tell from the way the man's eyes widen in disbelief, then turn to something resembling steel and then, as Thom takes his place in the cell that stinks of piss and blood, it softens again.

"Thank you, Captain."

The title clashes heavily against his thoughts, sharp and aching like a fresh wound. "Don't call me that."

"I've a family back in Val Chevin..." he shakes his head, scratches the back of his neck. “Didn't think I'd ever...” 

His voice breaks and Thom nods. "I know, Mornay."  
  
A wife and five daughters, he remembers. Redheads, the whole lot. Captain Rainier always did knew his men, knew the value and worth of every single one of them.

"Is there... do you have anyone-"

"No." He shakes his head, forcing out the very thought of Skyhold and its Herald. Last time he saw her she was sleeping peacefully beside him, her body one soft, unbroken curve against his chest."Go home."

"Hey, Mornay?" he calls after the man who turns on his heel, wearing the heartbreaking expression of someone who expects to be caught again, expects to learn that his promised release is nothing but a malicious prank. Thom gives him a reassuring nod. Once, they were his men. They'd have died for him. This is the least he can do. "I'm sorry."

Mornay looks at him for a moment, his face different now that things have settled into his bones.

"I know.  _Captain_ ," he says softly before he's gone. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
